You and I
by Chantal du Lac
Summary: In the aftermath of Voldemort’s demise, Ginny finds it impossible to deal with her brother’s death. Haunted by nightmares, her sanity slipping away, she decides that revenge is the only way to put off the pain…Tom Riddle/Ginny Weasley


**YOU and I**

**In the aftermath of Voldemort's demise, Ginny finds it impossible to deal with her brother's death. Haunted by nightmares, her sanity slipping away, she decides that revenge is the only way to put off the pain…**

**Glimpses at Ginny's thoughts. **

**Warnings: Tom/Ginny, dark and cruel Ginny**

**_Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter and his universe. I own nothing._**

**_Many thanks again to Lisa for betaing this._**

**Part One**

The first time it happened I woke up just before the dawn. I was covered in sweat, and my heart was hammering uncontrollably in my heaving chest. I sat on the edge of the bed for several minutes trying to figure out what had happened. The dream was blurred, but it had felt so real for a moment that I couldn't prevent my anguish from surfacing, and I heard my own stifled scream.

When I look back to that moment, I am astonished to see how aware I was of the fact that Mum and Dad and George should never know about the nightmares.

The following night, I cast silencing charms in my room to prevent any sounds from reaching their ears. They did not need me complaining. They did not need whiny, little Ginny crying her eyes out over Fred's death when they had to deal with George, the funeral, the trials, the questions, the pity, and the never-ending, inquisitorial looks from others.

After all, I had been whiny, little Ginny for years. People always said it was not easy for me to grow up with six older brothers and deal with their pranks all the time. They used smile gently and say, "Poor Ginny. The only girl in the family. Ignore them, dear, they will grow up one day, and then they will become overly protective instead." Yes, whiny Ginny could never resurface because she had died long ago; she had disappeared gradually during my first year at Hogwarts. I'd had a good teacher who had taught me how to put up with anything. Our encounter had changed me forever.

For this reason, the Ginny that I am now cannot give into her pain.

***

As we sit at the table in the incredibly small kitchen, no one says a word. I am disconcerted by this utter lack of communication, even though my mother had always had a tendency to keep everything from us because she thought we were too young to be told anything. When I was younger, this was frustrating; now I realize we are all too similar. I keep everything to myself now, just like her, but my motivation is different from hers.

She was trying to protect our childhood; I am trying to protect myself.

I look furtively at George. I know how much he must hate me for this, but I can't help it. I wish I found some complicity in his attitude. I wish he'd give me some sign that we felt the same; but instead, his eyes are empty, and his stare is lost, as if it were impossible for him to focus on anything anymore. Every time he is asked something, it's like he wakes up from a dream, as if he does not live in this world anymore.

It is like he does not care anymore.

He was the closest to Fred. They always said they were one spirit divided in two similar bodies.

Then, why do I feel like I am the one who has been torn?

Why am I the one who feels all the anger?

Why can't I help thinking the _unthinkable_ all the time?

***

It feels incredible, the wind sweeping in my hair, the fast beating of my heart. I am flying, for the very first time, far, far above the ground.

Look at the little house: It's like it has almost vanished from sight. And the horizon is so close that if I extend my arm, I could actually touch it. I never want to go back down; I wish I could remain like this forever.

"Hold on to that broom!" I hear his warning voice, when my right hand leaves the broom handle.

I scowl at Fred's words. It's not as if he's some kind of saint, like he ever plays by the rules.

I laugh and let go of the broom completely. We fall, but Fred also laughs.

Suddenly, his mutilated body is lying on the ground in the middle of the Entrance Hall. No one is fighting anymore, but invisible arms are preventing me from getting closer to Fred, from touching him, from protecting him. George, and Bill, and Ron, and Mum, and Dad, and Charlie, and that ungrateful Percy, are all here, and none of them looks at Fred, as if he does not exist, as if he does not count anymore.

I fight the invisible enemies, but I can't get closer. I just can't.

An unexpected feeling of guilt invades me.

I let go of the broom.

It's all my fault.

I wake up.

This time around it is not just before the dawn, and it is raining heavily outside. I am back to Hogwarts for my final year. From my four poster bed I can see the night sky where the silver moon is glowing and surrounded by thousands of bright stars. I check my wrist watch. It is not long past midnight.

It's been months now since I lost any pleasure in sleeping. I fear nights more than vampires fear daylight. While all the seventh years are trying to have as much as fun after curfew as possible, when parties happen every night, I go to bed early, just after dinner, with the hope o getting some sleep before the moon rises, before the nightmares come back. They come back every night, relentlessly, as if they do not have anyone else to haunt. And truth be told, they do not have, for the simple reason that these are _my_ nightmares. They are mine, and I am the one who has to deal with them.

***

I am sitting in the Great Hall for dinner. Ron and Hermione are bickering. Harry is eating his food quietly.

I am thinking the _unthinkable thoughts _again.

What if…?

Who cares?

Why not?

_Dumbledore said to Hermione that playing with Time is dangerous…_

Who cares about Dumbledore? What does he know?

_Dumbledore was no fool. We won the war thanks to him._

I thought we won the war thanks to Harry. Or am I wrong?

_That is not the question here. This is simply not right!_

In war, there is no right; it's all wrong. There are rules, and the ones stupid enough to respect them lose the war.

_My poor Ginny. You speak just like him. You don't even realize._

Like Tom? Please, it's just coincidence, dictated by my desperation.

I am under the impression that Ron asked me several questions, and I have no idea what he is talking about. The Golden _living _Trio looks concerned.

I stand up and leave the room.

Damn them. Damn their rules.

***

Fred Weasley.

Mum was never sure who was George and who was Fred.

I always knew because I always loved him best.

Fred was George's twin, but second to be born. Second in everything. Second to have his sweater made for Christmas, second to be called for dinner, second to be reprimanded when he did something wrong.

However, he had always been first for me: first to play with me when I was a child and no one else wanted to play with the only girl in the family, first to try to teach me how to fly a broom, first to console me when I was crying…

He was George's twin. But he was my brother, as well, and no one can tell me that I have to sit with my arms crossed and do nothing just because George is handling Fred's death well.

I can't. I simply won't.

***

His wand is raised, his smile is derisive, and his eyes are murderous. His murderous eyes are sending me a clear message: He will not stop. He has never considered sparing a life he had decided to take, not even for second. He can see my desperation and discomposure; he sees the tears in my eyes, as the curse strikes Fred down.

The red pupils never leave me; the derisive laugh does not stop.

I wake up on the floor. It seems that I have fallen from my bed while I was sleeping.

The red pupils were once gentle, that laugh directed at me was once warm and sincere.

Voldemort might be out of my league, but Tom Riddle is not.

_Are you sure?_

***

Last night I stole the Time-Turner from McGonagall's office.

It's a tiny golden object; it feels cold in my fist, as I return to the Gryffindor Tower, safely hidden under Harry's Invisibility cloak. Poor Harry, I'll have to take this with me as well, but this time I need it more than the Chosen One does. His war is over; mine is just beginning.

I have planned every little detail carefully. I have brewed the perfect, most horrid potion. No one knows Tom as I do. No one knows his weaknesses and his worst fears as I do.

One more visit to Slughorn's private stores, and I am ready.

**Part Two**

Once upon the time, there was a little red-haired girl from a large family who took the Hogwarts Express for the first time to go to school on a rainy September day. She had seen all her older brothers taking the same train before her. She had envied them because she was really anxious to know Hogwarts and be part of every exciting thing that was going on there.

This little girl was a very talented witch — or so people used to say. Before embarking on the long way to Hogwarts, she could already transfigure a mouse into a goblet and fly a broom. When this little girl was angry, she could even make her brothers' chairs move aside as they wanted to sit, so they landed painfully on the floor. And little Ginny didn't even need a wand to perform this latter trick.

Ginny Weasley travelled to Hogwarts in a new uniform, but with second hand books, notebooks, and caldrons. Nevertheless, she was happy to be a student and happy that she would finally see the boy she liked every day. The boy's name was Harry Potter, and he was a mighty hero. He had defeated a monster whose name nobody wanted to say (they called him "You-Know-Who"), and he had a scar to prove it. Harry was in Gryffindor, just like her brothers. And though Ginny had always wanted to be in any other House (well maybe except Hufflepuff) just to defy her family, she had changed her mind when Harry had been sorted into Gryffindor.

Ginny's life at school was serene, but she felt as much ignored at Hogwarts as she had felt at home. Her only joy was to pour her heart out into a magical diary. The diary answered all her concerns and calmed all her fears…and that is how Ginny made a new friend who dedicated himself to her exclusively.

***

Despite all the things he told Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, about how I was just some stupid schoolgirl he had managed to mislead and order around, Tom had proved to be as human and vulnerable as any sixteen-year-old boy. I really liked that about him: his vulnerability, the way he talked to me, how he shared his thoughts, the way he always found the right words to console me when I was angry, and the way he tried hard to find arguments to persuade me to open the damn Chamber. He was so charming that my obsession with Harry was starting to fade out and I was looking forward to finishing classes and going to the library to write in my diary. Tom was a faceless creature, and he still possessed an unlimited capacity to make me long for his presence. But back then, I was too young to be frightened by the dangerous nature of his game.

I've been trying hard to bury these memories deep into my unconsciousness for a long time. It was not proper to think about charming Tom Riddle who had tried to possess and kill me.

Now I need these memories more than ever. Tom is so close to me now that I can almost reach out and touch his back as he sits at the Slytherin table surrounded by his mates. I have travelled so many years into a stormy past and landed in this Hogwarts, which if it weren't for the unfamiliar faces, would be identical to the one I know.

The only element of surprise is Tom himself. To me, Tom has always been a faceless friend, a memory in an enchanted diary, a voice in my head, and a foreign presence in my unconscious body. I had no other memory of him — just my imagination for a substitute.

However, my imagination proved an unreliable instrument to create an accurate image of what Tom Riddle really was like.

***

"The properties of the dragon liver are countless," Tom explains to a crowded Slytherin table, and everyone listens to him in rapt attention. He looks incredibly casual as he leans on his elbows to emphasize his words. It is a superfluous move, because no one seems to be breathing, as they expect the rest of his dissertation. I do not find enough space to sit somewhere beside him, so I remain where I am and observe everybody at the table.

Tom goes on and reveals some of the attributes of the dragon liver that I know by heart, after using that ingredient countless times. As I scan the table, I note that nobody seems to be hiding any Dark Marks on their uncovered arms, meaning that dear Tom had not started his campaign yet.

The popularity he enjoys among the other students is striking. My image of him was of a secluded genius, lost in his books, befriending snakes exclusively. Instead, Tom seems to be a charming leader and the heartthrob of most girls in the Great Hall. His looks may explain the attraction girls feel towards him. Even though I can barely see his profile from where I stand alert under my Invisibility cloak, I am aware of his charisma, of his tall and strong frame, of the elegance of his hands, of the sensual timbre of his voice…

When an hour has passed and the younger students have been hauled to bed by prefects, Tom remains at the table in the company of his best mates. The tone of his voice has changed now. It sounds a bit more quiet, perhaps tired and bored; it is just a chat between friends, and he has left aside his desire to be glamorous at all times. The seat to his right is not taken; it seems that no one dared to sit there. Without a tad of hesitation, I swing my leg over the bench and sit right beside him; it's a risky move, but the dangerousness of his proximity is like a powerful drug.

"By this time next year, we will be graduating," a boy in front of Tom says. "Have you decided what you are going to do?"

Tom takes a sip of his drink lazily before answering. When he puts the goblet back on the table, I take advantage to pour a few drops of my potion in it. _Merlin, I will enjoy this._

"Of course I haven't. I'm the first in everything, I can decide at the last moment. I can do whatever I like."

His mates chuckle, and the boy turns a beautiful shade of scarlet.

"But you are good enough to choose whatever you want as well, Black," Tom says pleasantly, cutting off any nasty remarks from the others.

The boy looks at him gratefully, as Tom downs his goblet. Beside him, I smile gleefully. _That's a good boy, Tom._

"Perhaps we should call it a night," Tom continues. "I have some reading to do."

"Still working on Slughorn's project, aren't you?" a girl asks suddenly, her eyes blazing. "You should not let him use your time in the research when he has no intention of mentioning you in his book."

Tom's smile is charming.

"It doesn't matter, Anais. It will serve me some purpose some day," he says tiredly and stands. His elbow almost touches me. Almost. I stand as well, and we make our way towards the Slytherin common room.

***

Tom shares a dorm with three other boys, by the number of beds in the room. At this time we are alone in the cold room. As soon as we arrive, he casts a few spells to light a fire and some candles. He loosens his tie and takes a very familiar notebook out off his bag. Sitting on his bed, he writes a few lines, his stare lost in the fire, a small smile playing on his lips. The smile makes me sick. His joy is always someone else's pain.

_Smile while you can, Riddle. Soon enough you will not know the definition of it anymore._

Soon after, Tom is asleep, and his torment begins.

The nightmare will be more or less the same every time I give him my well-concocted potion. And I will make sure that dear Tom takes his potion until he fears his own shadow.

Some would consider it payback.

Other might consider it an outrageous crime against an innocent sixteen-year-old boy.

I consider it a precautionary measure.

Tom turns violently in his sleep, and I sit near him on the bed and observe him quietly. Even in his torment, he is beautiful. I play absently with a lock of his dark hair.

"Tom, my poor Tom."

***

It was the unthinkable; it was monstrous; it was cruel.

It was the only option.

My Tom needed to disappear somehow from "Hogwarts, A History." He had to disappear from all history books.

I could not kill him. You see, I cared too much for Tom. For a moment in time, we were once one person.

The effects of the potion are truly dangerous. It is worse than a poison. It searches one's unconsciousness until it finds his worst fear and exploits it in terrible nightmares. The form might be different, but the content is always the same.

Tom fears his own death, and he has to face it every night.

***

It's been two months since I have travelled into the past.

It's midnight.

Tom's asleep. The shadows under his eyes are the only witness of his torment.

You see, I know my Tom. He is too proud to seek help. He is too proud to see Dumbledore, who is the only person who might find out the truth behind his fatigue and his fear.

The potion is effective, and so am I, when harassing Tom. I whisper into his ear, and he cannot see anyone around. He denies my presence; he believes this all his imagination, but I am always there, at his side…

Tom screams in his sleep, and I seal his lips with a kiss.

It will not be long now. He just needs an incentive. I will help him with that as well.

"Tom, my poor Tom."

***

Albus Dumbledore watched through the small window of his office the quartet of mediwizards escorting Tom Riddle out of the castle.

He had expected many things from young Riddle, but not this.

One of the best students Hogwarts had ever seen.

The last heir of the Slytherins.

He had never given the boy his entire confidence, but he appreciated his penchant for study, as well as all his achievements. Therefore, when Tom Riddle had started to skip classes and behave strangely, he had tried to talk to the boy, but Riddle had rejected his every attempt.

Riddle had been sent to the Infirmary several times during the last three months, but his condition was only getting worse, and he was refusing to cooperate with everyone.

And just the day before, Riddle attacked one of the seventh years with a knife — a girl from Hufflepuff with fiery redhair. When the mediwizards arrived, they declared the boy had to be taken to Saint Mungo's.

Life was surely very strange at times, the old professor concluded, extracting the Riddle memory from his head and placing it into his Pensive.

***

This morning I woke up in my four-poster bed at Hogwarts feeling strangely happy. Hermione is still sleeping in the bed to my right; her face hidden in a mass of bushy curls. It was my first quiet night in almost a year now. I open my copy of "Hogwarts, A History" and smile contently when I find no mention of Lord Voldemort.

When I arrive in the Great Hall for breakfast, Ron sits alone at the Gryffindor table, and I join him.

"Hi. Can you pass the coffee and the pumpkin juice, please?"

He grumbles, but he passes the carafes to me. Some things never change, even when Dark Lords do not rise to power. Ron is one of them.

As Hermione joins us, I add another to my list.

I cannot abstain from inquiring about Fred.

"Yeah, like you didn't see him yesterday," Ron says with a grin. "You'll probably see the loons again on Saturday when we go to Hogsmeade."

My heart warms up, but I have one more concern:

"And Harry?"

"Harry, as in _Harry Potter_?" Ron asks incredulously. "I thought you never wanted to hear about that prat again!" he continues, pointing at something behind me.

I follow the direction of his finger. I know Harry cannot be the same worshiped hero, because he had no villain to fight. Two boys have just entered the Great Hall chattering. One of them has bright green eyes, which are nicely emphasized by his…black and green robes. He has no scar, proof of his bravery. As our eyes meet, he gives me a mischievous smile. At his side, Draco Malfoy, his arm flung around Harry's shoulders, is whispering in his ear, his insufferable smirk directed at me.

"I swear," I hear Ron's voice from far, far away, "Mum says Potter is even worse than his father used to be when he was at Hogwarts. And since he's become friends with Malfoy, he's even worse."

My smile never reaches my eyes. For a second, Tom's beautiful, tormented face comes to my mind.

Some things we win; other things we lose.

FIN

A/N: I always wanted to write a Tom/Ginny, but I knew it had to be very subtle and realistic, because it is clear as daylight that no sane human being would fall in love with such a psychopath, dispite the attraction that Riddle might exercise over her. I hope I got this right.


End file.
